Pat Ritter. Books

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'The Shearer' - Page 6:

Ma looked after Joe like the son she never had. She washed his clothes, cooked and did odd jobs to make him and the other shearers comfortable in her boarding house. At different times she had room for up to six shearers or ringers from around town.
Mixing flour for her bread making, she heard a noise coming from the back steps. ‘Who’s there?’ She shouted and kept on mixing the dough.
‘Only me Ma – Joe’, he answered walking into the kitchen. Heat from the wood stove blasted across the small room as he entered.
‘What happened to you?’ She wanted to know.
‘I kind of run into an elbow Ma – I got locked up for me troubles.’
‘Were you drunk again?’ She asked, continuing to knead the dough to make bread.
‘I don’t know – must have been. I called into the Railway Hotel on the way home to have a “hair of the dog”. Alex barred me from the place.’
‘Good on him, serves you right.’ Ma blasted. ‘When are you going to learn you can’t always drink? You going out to the shed tomorrow?’
‘Yeah – I’d better have a bath.’
‘Waters hot in the copper out the back – help yourself.’ Ma returned to her bread making.
Joe walked from the kitchen to the outside yard. The copper, a cast iron stand about three feet high, held a copper tub filled with water. Beneath the copper tub, wood burned to heat the water. Once the water was hot enough, it was bucketed from the copper tub using a four gallon kerosene tin open at the top with gauge eight fencing wire, fastened on either side to use as a handle.

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'The Shearer' - Page 7:

Ma looked after Joe like the son she never had. She washed his clothes, cooked and did odd jobs to make him and the other shearers comfortable in her boarding house. At different times she had room for up to six shearers or ringers from around town.
Mixing flour for her bread making, she heard a noise coming from the back steps. ‘Who’s there?’ She shouted and kept on mixing the dough.
‘Only me Ma – Joe’, he answered walking into the kitchen. Heat from the wood stove blasted across the small room as he entered.
‘What happened to you?’ She wanted to know.
‘I kind of run into an elbow Ma – I got locked up for me troubles.’
‘Were you drunk again?’ She asked, continuing to knead the dough to make bread.
‘I don’t know – must have been. I called into the Railway Hotel on the way home to have a “hair of the dog”. Alex barred me from the place.’
‘Good on him, serves you right.’ Ma blasted. ‘When are you going to learn you can’t always drink? You going out to the shed tomorrow?’
‘Yeah – I’d better have a bath.’
‘Waters hot in the copper out the back – help yourself.’ Ma returned to her bread making.
Joe walked from the kitchen to the outside yard. The copper, a cast iron stand about three feet high, held a copper tub filled with water. Beneath the copper tub, wood burned to heat the water. Once the water was hot enough, it was bucketed from the copper tub using a four gallon kerosene tin open at the top with gauge eight fencing wire, fastened on either side to use as a handle.

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'The Shearer' - Page 8:

After drying himself, he dressed in a pair of trousers and shirt, slipped on a clean pair of socks and pulled on his boots. He felt better. After emptying the water from the bath tub onto the back grass area he wiped the inside with a rag and hung it on nails hammered into the wall near where he bathed.
When he returned to the kitchen Ma had completed her task of making bread and placed the containers into the oven to bake.
‘Do you want any wood cut for the stove, Ma?’ Joe asked, feeling work would clear away the cobwebs from the night before.
‘Thanks Joe. There’s lots of wood out the back on the wood heap. Cut plenty because you mightn’t be back in town for awhile and those other lazy buggers won’t help me around the place. They reckon they pay enough board, so they don’t need to do anything else. I’ll fix you lunch.’
Joe left the kitchen, walked to the wood heap piled with mulga logs ready to be cut with an axe. Picking up the axe in his right hand he swung it over his right shoulder cutting into the steel type mulga. This was good fire wood to use in a kitchen stove to gain heat, but hard wood to cut and with constant cutting the blade soon lost its sharpness. Joe filed the blade, touching the edge with the inside of his right thumb to feel it was sharp enough to continue.
After a couple of hours, he’d cut sufficient wood to keep Ma going for two weeks. He gathered some in his arms and returned to the kitchen. ‘Here Ma, I’ve cut enough for a couple of weeks. You should be right.’ He placed the pile of wood from his arms next to the stove.

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'The Shearer' - Page 9:

His nostrils filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread. There was nothing more soothing to the membranes of the nostrils than to smell bread taken from the oven. The aroma slithered like a snake through his nostrils enough to draw saliva to his mouth.
Joe often stole half-a-loaf from the kitchen table whilst it cooled, pulled the soft dough from the centre, shoved it into his mouth and replaced the empty crust back on the table without Ma knowing. Over time she recognised what Joe was up to and promised never to bake bread again if he continued to take the middle out of the loaf.
After a hearty lunch made by Ma, swamped in hot black sauce, a slice of mutton mixed with pickles, and boiled potato, Joe sat back feeling much improved to earlier in the day. His mind fixed on work.
Kahmoo Station only ten miles, as the crow flies and he’d walk the distance in less than half a day, leaving at daylight in the morning and reach the property by lunch. He’d carried his swag further than this distance to reach other properties he’d previously shorn. Being there by lunch gave him plenty of time to meet the other shearers and cook to catch up.

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'The Shearer' - Page 10:

Chapter 2

Before daylight broke across the horizon the following morning, Joe headed west and crossed the small bridge on the Warrego River. An ole saying in the west is – once you’ve crossed the Warrego River you’ll cross it again and again. With the morning sun on his back, his swag swung over one shoulder; a smile on his lips, a song in his heart, escape from the bounds of town, booze, again headed bush to do what he loved best - shearing.
Born in Menangle, New South Wales on 26th July 1860, his parents had arrived in Australia from Ireland for a new beginning. Joe lived a playful life as a child growing up to become a strong youth, his dream always to become a shearer.
Adventure filled his mind, moving from property to property and shearing overtook his daily thoughts. Desire to be the best at using hand shears to strip the wool from the sheep’s back in the quickest time became his dream.
Memories surfaced of himself at 12 years old, sitting in the front row at Menangle School being taught by Miss Fletcher, a stern, upright woman who tried to instil into her pupils the importance of an education. Being able to read and write was important for everyone, except Joe, who didn’t get on with school.
Only time Joe took notice of Miss Fletcher’s babbling was, when she mentioned the arrival of a straggling flock of sheep at Port Phillip Bay in 1788. His mind alert, he sat upright in his seat beckoning Miss Fletcher to tell him more.
She continued the story of this flock of sheep which were for slaughter to feed the colonists who’d arrived on the first fleet to settle in Van Diemens Land, later to be named Australia. She spoke about an Australian pioneer, John Macarthur, in 1794, who breed a sheep named ‘Merino’. His interest in the subject devoured every thought, creating images of how the ‘Merino’ now the savour of the wool industry with its fine wool made into garments, blankets and other clothing. Australia was born on the sheep’s back through the introduction of the ‘Merino’ sheep.

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'The Shearer' - Page 11:

How could he forget the moment he told his father, ‘Pa, I’m leaving school to start work in a shearing shed tomorrow?’ His Pa, a farmer, instilled ethics of ‘hard work never killed anyone’ into Joe from the day he could walk, his strength stronger than any of his age. This helped him in ploughing and planting potatoes and other vegetables sought by the local community.
Joe didn’t want to be a farmer like his Pa wanted him to be. His desire to be a shearer filled his thoughts each time he bent over to pick up a potato or other vegetable, imagining he was bent over a wether sheep shearing the wool.
Passing by Curragh Station, he slowed to take a rest. Half way mark. Crested pink-coloured galahs screeched their calling, together with the call of a black crow, broke the silence. Music to Joe’s ears, he listened to the call of these outback birds of the bush, delighted to be free to listen to their song of welcome. Kangaroos bounced across the open plain followed by the spindly legs of the Emus making space between the two as if in a race.
Gathering small sticks to build a fire, he boiled the billy and made tea. Soon he munched on a piece of Ma’s freshly cooked bread, filled with a thick slice of mutton covered with black sauce penetrated through to the outside. It tasted delicious; his taste buds savoured each mouthful.
Joe leaned against the trunk of a huge gum tree. A gentle breeze cooled his face; he was in Heaven. He extracted a tobacco tin from his pocket, twisted the lid to open, took out a packet of cigarette papers and picked one from the packet. His other fingers scooped sufficient tobacco from the tin to make a self-made rollie. With the cigarette paper in his left hand, he spread the tobacco leaves along the inside of the paper. With his left hand he rolled the cigarette paper around the leaf material, licked along the edge and twisted each end to make a cigarette. Placed one end in his mouth, striking a match against his trousers, he lit the other end. The taste of nicotine filtered through his nostrils, putting him in a relaxed mood.

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'The Shearer' - Page 12:

What’s so different to tea boiled in the billy on an open fire to tea boiled on a stove? Joe’s opinion, the taste was different. Was it caused by gum leaves, to be totally different and unique to the palate? Or was it from the smoke billowing from the open fire so refreshed on the taste buds to quench the thirst?
Memories flooded back to when he was twelve and shared the news with his father that he was leaving school to work as a ‘tarboy’ with the shearers from Menangle. He remembered his father’s frown signalled by his brow tightening, anger building to a roar. ‘You’re too young!’ his father shouted into Joe’s face, splattering spittle.
‘I’m twelve Pa – I’ve got a job and can work as hard as any man,’ he wiped the moisture of his father’s spittle from his face with the back of his hand.
‘We’ll speak no more about this – do you understand?’ His father turned and walked away. Joe’s attitude not to go against his father’s wishes burned in his mind. I’ll find a way. He’d already promised Mr Thompson, the local shearing contractor, he would meet him at daybreak next morning to start work. He couldn’t let him down. A promise was a promise. He gave Mr Thompson his word and to Joe this was a contract. A man’s word is his bond.
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